Wild Dogs

The pack gave chase, and the boys ran. The dogs form packs at the edge of the city, and their eyes change over time. They see something that was there all along like an apparition in a parachute of ash. Some of the dogs recalled caresses or blows while others were far removed, knowing only the moon, water, bones in the sun. When the boys came into view, the dogs were already running.

One boy fell. The other continued running. The pack passed the fallen boy. Hands pressed to the ground, he watched his friend be dragged to the ground again and again. Dogs disable their prey, and when it cannot escape, they eat it before it is dead. When the fallen boy lay still, the dogs lay down around him, panting, looking at other things, at each other, distracted, confused. But if he moved, the dogs would bite him again. He died in the hospital that night.

For many years, the boy who lived dreamt he was a dog. At the edge of the city. In the pack that had run past him. He was the dog with the ledger who kept track of things. At the end of the day the other dogs would gather around and demand the tally of what they had done. The only dog able to hold a pencil, the boy would recite the pack’s history, which was dying every moment. In the dream the dogs, red-muzzled, weepy-eyed, parasites in their bellies, listened, regarding him with distant expressions, as if they were not sure what the tally was about. As long as he remained speaking, the dogs would be at every moment forgetting. If he stopped, they would notice him. Their eyes would change. They would remember that they had let him go.